


Words

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-28
Updated: 2007-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:19:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wonders when Rodney's going to figure out they're a Newtonian law, persistent reminders of a mechanical universe, equal and opposite reactions packaged up and mailed to Pegasus, no return address.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

John wonders when Rodney's going to figure out they're a Newtonian law, persistent reminders of a mechanical universe, equal and opposite reactions packaged up and mailed to Pegasus, no return address. Rodney needs someone to shoot him in the leg, throw him off a balcony: John's there with a firearm and a shove. John needs . . .

He looks up at Rodney, who's pacing the five or six feet at the foot of their bed and ranting furiously about Simpson's attempt to kill them all.

John needs this.

For all that he doesn't have the best relationship with words – there was a falling out in seventh grade, a couple of bad attempts at reconciliation, a really bad prom experience and then the usual collegiate experimental phase where "hegemony" and "consanguineous" got thrown into casual conversation and someone always started bleeding from the nose – John _likes_ them. He can't be trusted to use them well, but that just means he has limitless admiration for the way Rodney fearlessly jumps into tide pools of verbs and nouns, flinging them about like salt spray and mollusks, starfish dangling from his fingers.

John squints at the golf club he's cleaning. He thinks his metaphor just got way out of hand.

But still – the point is Rodney can talk, _Jesus_ , he can talk. He fills all the forcibly silent places in John with bright, brilliant sounds – curses, threats, explanations of scientific concepts that three other people in the world understand, fragments of truly filthy French, four swear words in Polish, a click and two grunts that might indicate a distinctly Canadian lack of air, but which might also encompass profound philosophical insights in some parts of the globe. There's a tonal range that, considering the monotone quality of his own don't-fuck-with-me voice, John thinks is damn impressive. And then there are the gestures – the Disney on Ice body language Rodney grabs and gleans from the air, the twist of his hands and the tilt of his chin. It's operatic, dammit. It's goddamn Man in Black _eloquent_.

Which is why, often, like tonight, John finds himself setting down his golf club and pushing himself up off the bed, crossing to meet Rodney as he spins back for a 741st pass across the room, grabbing his shirt and kissing him quiet. There's a lot John can't _say_ exactly, but that doesn't mean he's doesn't have other stuff he can do with his tongue, ways to communicate, to make Rodney grab at his shirt sleeves and whimper quietly, all his energy redirected, stored up and detonated inside their kiss.

"Hey," John says when they break apart.

"Hmmm. Hey," Rodney manages, glassy-eyed and flushed. "How was your – um. Day?"

And John laughs softly, pushes Rodney down on the bed and crawls up over him, finds the space that he's come to think of as his, warm and secure between Rodney's thighs, kisses him again, kisses him slow, kisses him with no thought of going anywhere but this – kisses, kissing, drag of stubble and flicker of tongue, soft, sweet press of lips at the corner of Rodney's mouth, fingers creeping slowly up into his hair, noses batting, their smiles tangled, teeth clicking more than once, laughter mixing before the kisses deepen, strengthen, soften, become the sum of slick tongues and stolen, shaking breaths. Rodney inches a hand beneath John's shirt, curls it protectively around his hip, fingers flexing as his other hand curves up into John's hair, holding him close, teeth grazing John's bottom lip, lips swollen, careful, sweet, and John gasps, rocks down, licks his way back into Rodney's waiting mouth, tastes him, savors him, drinks in the words Rodney still has stored, feels the crystal edge of them melting on his tongue and god, they – he, Rodney – tastes of home and meaning and something like relief.

"Hi," Rodney manages eventually, long minutes later when John rests his forehead against Rodney's shoulder, face down in the dusty, console-grubby folds of his t-shirt. His fingers card up from the nape of John's neck to the crown of his head, over and over, pushing his hair against the grain and making John shiver.

"Mmmm," John says back, t-shirt rucked up, the small of his back exposed and chilly. He lets out a breath, rubs his nose against black, musty fabric, breathes in Rodney – sweat and old, spilled coffee; once-clean skin.

"I could – " Rodney wraps an arm around John's torso, firm across his back, and reaches, twitches a blanket over them both. "Hmm?"

"Yeah," John whispers, and turns his face, kisses the line of Rodney's throat, settles himself to listen. "Talk to me."

"Talk – I . . . Talk? About what?" Rodney asks, fingers scritching their path back through John's hair.

"Anything."

"Huh. Anything." Rodney sounds doubtful.

"Mean it." John closes his eyes. "Just words."

And Rodney holds his breath for a second, kisses the messed-up crown of John's head then sighs and settles his shoulders more comfortably against the mattress. "Jeannie wrote. Madison's decided to take up modern dance as well as ballet and – I just . . . what is the _point_ of modern dance? Utter misnomer. It's – gyrations. Epileptic stylings that . . ."

John smiles – silent; contented; equal and opposite – and lets Rodney's diatribe soothe him to sleep.


End file.
